Jethro slouched in a rickety cane chair in front of the door. The rectangle of daylight before him shimmered with the desert heat and illuminated the dirt floor leading to his boots. They were grimy and worn. Scuff marks and signs of a working life etched the leather. Faded and creased canvas pant legs lay over the tops of his boots and on his lap a gnarled hand rested on an old lever-action rifle made of well-worn wood and etched metal. There was a wound on his right leg that oozed blood from a large broken scab just above the knee.

Dirt cake his fingernails and his weathered and cracked hands disappeared into the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Wooden buttons scaled the front of the shirt like a row of farmers fresh from a long day in the fields. There were five of them originally, but the fourth one was missing and there was only a buttonhole in its place. Where the two sides of his shirt met in a V-shape his collar rose, the red and brown sun washed pattern partially gone. With the shirt collar his beard also began. It was dirty brown and speckled with gray, and it was clear that he had not shaved in some time.

His face was almost as weathered as his hands, except for the fact that for many years the long shadow of his cowboy hat had offered some meager protection. His inset eyes were clear and green just like those of his Pa, and he gazed in deep thought up at the ceiling.

Memories of Corrinha and the girls flashed behind his eyes and he smiled slightly. Megan was so headstrong like her mama, but she was tough as nails. Elsie was bright and sweet and happy. She was his favorite, if only slightly, but he would never admit that in front of the family. He loved and provided for them all equally. They were his life – or at least they had been.

Jethro have not lived a hard life, at least no more difficult than folks around him. Hard work with a smidge of suffering was normal and he knew that he had more opportunity than many. He did not consider himself to be a poor man. He and Corrinha had met at a young age and fallen fiercely in love. She was the daughter of Irish settlers and had lived in New Mexico her whole life, whereas he had come west from Kansas to seek his fortune. Together they had claimed a homestead and built a life from the land.

One day in early spring Jethro had come home to find a plume of smoke rising from the house. Corrinha lay bloody and unmoving on the front porch, her blue dress gently ruffled by the wind. He wept out as he checked for breath, noticing that she was still warm. He then ran inside to look for the girls. He found them as still as their mother, and nearby was a young Indian brave with a knife sticking out of his chest.

Jethro carried the girls out one after the other and lay them away from the fire before dragging Corrinha to be near them. Sobbing, he checked each one for signs of life again, and despair welled up in his heart when he found none. Lastly he dragged the young indian out and then doused the fire with several large buckets of water.

Then he sat, head in his hands, and cried uncontrollably. In time his tears ran out, and he felt as if he was made of stone. What did he have left without his family? He looked out onto the farm and could not imagine life here without his girls.

Soon he rose and begin to dig shallow graves. He had scarcely finished saying goodbye to his wife when he heard horses in the distance. Quickly he took the bloody knife out of the chest of the young man and threw it onto the porch. Then he ran inside and grabbed his rifle, checking to ensure that it was loaded.

The rifle action made a soft click-click as he cycled it. Five horses burst over the hill with more braves riding on their backs. Jethro held the rifle in front of him and waited. One man stopped in dismounted while the other four waited on their restless horses. The man looked at the dead young brave and gestured loudly with his hands and voice at Jethro.

Jethro quietly said, “He killed my wife and daughters.” He pointed at the graves and he pointed at young brave.

The man yelled something at him again and then struck him in the face with his fist, his face blazing with rage. Jethro stumbled and one of the other Braves yelled something from his horse. It was at that moment he realized that he was in serious trouble. He felt so ashamed that he ran like a coward, but it was dusk and he knew that he would not survive if he stayed.

After two days of running, being shot at, and hiding, Jethro found an old, one-room, hunting cabin nestled against the rock wall of the valley. He was exhausted and injured, but mostly he was no longer willing to run. He did not know if the young brave was kin to those who pursued him. He did not know what Corrinha had done, if anything, to cause the confrontation. Everyone who witnessed his family’s last words was dead, and being gravely injured he held little hope of living another day.

Muffled voices carried on the wind through the trees, and he knew that time was short. Slowly, he raised the rifle and pointed it at the blazing doorway. The voices grew louder and he waited patiently with a faint buzzing in his ears. When a shadow appeared in the doorway he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

He heard a cry, and he began to work the lever to load another cartridge into the chamber.

BANG!

He slouched slowly, blood flowing quickly out of his chest. His body toppled onto the dirt floor, and he saw boots and spurs just as his vision left him. There were muffled words spoken above him, and as his ears failed him, he recognized English.

“…did it, Marshal. He shot Seth.”

I was in what might have been lode twenty-four, a fair pace from home and peering around the edge of the bunk. The bunk’s gray wall narrowed out of sight to my left. It was quiet out there in the hall, but my hair was on end with the sensation of unfathomable danger. I tilted my ears to carefully scan every angle for reflections, but I heard nothing. No breathing or thumping or clicking of claws. Nothing. It was that pure silence that allowed distress to roost on my back. I had experienced it in the past when I was still in the folly of youth.

I remember when my eleventh cousin, Joeilus, and I were thieving cronbils from lode six. We had been cavorting there for at least fifteen minutes when we heard a telltale click echo from the far edge of lode five. Our ears flattened as we froze mid-chew before slowly swiveling up onto our haunches to listen for a repeat that never arrived. We waited at least ten seconds before Joeilus spoke.

“Let’s see what that was.” He brushed past me as he tiptoed toward the gap between lodes five and six. A crumb dropped from his chest.

I followed obediently as I always did when there was someone strong-willed leading the way.

As we neared the edge he pointed to the corner a few steps ahead and said, “Take a look.”

“No way, this was your idea,” I whispered to him. “We could take the long way back and not even have to worry about it.”

He tilted his head mockingly. “Bah. One little noise and you act like a baby trilp. I’ll look first since you’re such a fearbie.” Joeilus peered around the corner cautiously at first but after a few seconds he spoke with confidence as he turned back.

“That was nothing. Listen.” He paused with his arms out for affect, his palms down. “Do you hear that silence? That’s the sound of cronbils begging to get in my gullet.” He paused again, listening, and I listened too. Our ears scanned the angles and heard no sound at all. We waited some more, and I could tell that he really was being cautious.

“How long do you want to wait before you believe that it was nothing?” He stepped slowly backward into the lode doing a small dance with each step. Now he was being utterly sarcastic and the smirk painted on his face taunted me.

I saw the shadow fall first and then I felt the turbulent wind of speed as Joeilus was swept off of his feet in the claws of the beast.

“Run!” He screamed to me, and I saw him receding at a terrific velocity toward the fanged maw gaping far above me.

Needless to say, I ran with everything I had.

Behind me I heard a thud-click as the other set of claws slapped down behind me just after I ducked into a passage. Joeilus was silent now, and I knew that the difference between my life and his was mere chance.

That was how I had learned to trust my instinct. Now, standing on the edge of the bunk with my spine twitching I was filled with memories of Joeilus and the uncanny silence and speed that the beast was capable of. This was the same silence, and my uncle’s words rang in my memory.

Run away – to run away – to run away another day.

He was right. This was the way of our people. We had no warriors since Fiolud the Brown and he was nothing but a legend to those of my generation. I was left with little choice; if I stayed I would die. It would take an hour to get home, but I had gleaned enough bounty to make it worth the trip even if I left now.

The passage I needed was across the lode, a small hidden entrance under a structure that was natural in these parts. Its tunnel would meander and wind through paths burrowed over many years, but it would be safe. It was our world, my world, and I would be safe if I could make it there.

I knew if I ran straight across the lode I would be caught. This lode had a number of tower structures at its edges, and some of them had ledges and divots that might hide me. Taking my time I scanned again, and though I caught no glimpse of noise, the feeling of terror had not subsided. Sidling to the end of the structure that towered above me, I judged the distance to my next spot. I took a breath, put my head down and ran.

There was no reaction to my appearance. I repeated my scurry to the next hiding place just about one-third of the way toward my goal. Again there was no whisper of noise, just the hush of an empty lode. My fear melted into a sparse breeze of tension as I caught my breath. It was just paranoia – just irrational fear. I looked to the next spot. This one was a little further away, but it had a fair cavern near the far side that appeared to be comfortingly dark.

I took off jogging rapidly with my eyes on the darkness ahead. As it came near I felt the uncanny sense of impending doom, and I jumped with an awkward lurch. Landing just shy of the darkness I stumbled and rolled. Just behind me a massive claw-infested fist hit the ground only inches from my feet and panic attacked my throat.

I squeaked in shock and ran further into the darkness as far as I could go until my body was pressed, panting against the rear of the cavern. I heard a scratch from where I entered and closed my eyes in dread. [I will not get out of this one.] Slowly I opened my eyes and looked. There was a large shadow moving outside of the cavern and the deep huff of drawn breath. It was searching for me.

The wall continued to my right and I quietly snuck along its edge just to increase the distance between myself and the beast. There was another entrance to the cavern! My brain could not believe it. There was a gap and beyond it another cavern that was fairly close. I did not think; I sprinted with all of the speed I could muster.

Now, I do not want to toot my own horn here, but I was no slouch. I could run as fast as anyone I knew. There were the occasional races around the neighborhood and I won more than I lost. Nevertheless, I had not gone forty paces before I felt the alarms go off again. This beast was on the other side of the whole structure sniffing me out, but as soon as I got into the open it had known that I fled and was able to make it around the entire structure in a time frame I could not comprehend.

This time I ducked and slid to the side a little, but its claw tore into my back. It felt like I had fallen and impaled myself on a foot long thorn, but unbelievably it had not caught me. I knew that to be caught and propelled toward the maw of the beast was the end of all ends. There was no coming back from that. I knew I had to swerve and avoid better than I ever had.

Another fist connected with the ground right where I had been a moment ago. Scrabbling on the ground for footing I vaulted toward my goal and swerved into the inky cavern. My eyes had not even adjusted before a fist came thrusting with fury into the hole I occupied. The arm pivoted on the beast’s hairy elbow and swept the immediate interior.

I only remember running and slamming into a wall there, ricocheting off the angles of the cavern before emerging into light on the other side. Based on the velocity that it was able to gain last time, I knew I had no chance of outrunning it. Nevertheless, I ran anyways because it is what I do and, to my luck, something delayed the beast’s progress.

I do not know what happened. Maybe its elbow caught on a lip. Maybe it committed the entire arm up to its shoulder and was furiously dismantling the back of that cavern. Maybe it had a moment of mercy and wanted me to get away. I did not really care why, but there was a distinct postponement of my calamity, and I used that moment to run.

The distance was shorter on this span, and I could see my goal in sight. I ducked, swerved, and twitched with every ounce of my strength hoping that my efforts would foil the lightning quick fists that were sure to appear behind me.

WAM! A thud shredded the ground to my right, the terrain exploding under impact and raining chunks around me. A gray-orange ball the size of my entire body and full of razor-sharp claws spun toward me. I glanced left and saw a shadow. I knew why this fist had not hit me. It was directing me toward the other. Counter to my instincts I jumped backward and to the right – directly toward the proverbial jaws of death.

The fists clashed right in front of me as I ducked under and charged to the right. An involuntary squeak came out of my mouth as I entered the darkness of the passage. A moment later the beast’s last, desperate thrust consumed the glow from the entrance, but I had more momentum and was able to avoid its rage. There in the tunnel bleeding and exhausted, I collapsed.

Despite the pain and weariness, I felt vindicated. I had endured jokes and taunts about my cautious nature, but they served me well to the end. I was no Fiolud the Brown, but I had the speed and agility of my ancestors. I did not need to fight. I only needed to survive.

I woke up gasping in the dark.

It was just another night, Tuesday night. I could feel the abject terror only inches away from my jugular just begging me to react. It wanted me to curl and cry, but I didn’t. I listened.

In the bed next to me she was breathing softly. She is usually far more sleepless than I, but now she was indeed asleep. I listened, but the sound machine was playing its incessant rain track. It had no pattern, and I could hear a faint something in the midst of the racket. I strained, every muscle and ear drum tense with effort. It was right there, THAT noise that I hear. That indistinct thump-thump at random intervals.

Usually, I wake, I listen, and I feel the peaceful vibe. This time is different. An unknown fear remained, taunting me from just over the side of the bed. I spent a few horrible minutes waiting and bending my ear towards any unexpected noise. The more I listened the more the noise machine drowned my ability to think.

So I extended my hand slowly onto the nightstand and felt the cool plastic handle of my Glock. It fit me well and comforted my mind. I have cleaned, studied, and trained with this tool so many times that my mind and body were highly familiar with the details of its workings. Carefully I slipped out of bed with the pistol aimed at the floor and my finger off the trigger. I was well aware that there are four people living here other than myself.

In the hall the darkness suited my night eyes. I felt the placement of the front door knob and deadbolt, and as I snuck into the living room one of my big dogs stretched his legs and looked at me with a curious look as if to say, ‘What are YOU doing up?’ This eased my mind. Three dogs and no barking means I can feel pretty sure there is nobody in the house.

As as I turned the corner into the kitchen I see the night light, and the terror is still present in a real way. Under the table the second dog was scratching his snout on the floor with a characteristic ‘thump-thump’ that I have heard a thousand times. He could not be bothered to stop when I came in.

“That’s it.” I told myself. “He does that, I get freaked out, I look around and it’s okay. This is like last time.”

But like every time, I always complete my scan. There are reports lately of two men walking through the neighborhood knocking on doors and looking for who is and who is not home. I am up already and it makes no sense not to check the exterior doors. Even five feet away I could see the bolt on the back door gleaming in the kitchen night light. It was locked.

I turned and crept slowly down the stairs and looked into the den. It was silent and I heard the faint whir of my computer in the corner. Neo stares blankly at me from the Matrix poster on the far side of the room. The door to the garage is at the bottom of the stairs and beyond it lies the last external door. I opened the door and stepped through while flipping on the light switch.

Two men dressed in black fatigues hunch over a glowing, wooden box in the center of the garage. Their heads swiveled in surprise, and as I stepped back in shock, one of them launched himself at me at full speed. My reaction was to raise my pistol and fire, but the distance was too close and this man was very quick. His gloved hand slapped the Glock from my hand in under two seconds.

With his other hand, he pulled my head down with a rapid motion into his rising knee. I saw red as my nose crunched under the impact. The pain was immediate and blinding, and as my hands extended to soften my fall I heard a voice fading with my consciousness.

“Get the woman and kids. It’s set to go off in fifteen…”